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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26677828">The Warmest Place to Hide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terror_AI/pseuds/Terror_AI'>Terror_AI</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metal Gear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Suggestive Themes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,339</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26677828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terror_AI/pseuds/Terror_AI</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Miller hums. Snake hears the subtle inflection; he isn’t happy about it either. “What was I supposed to do? We all have our time, kid.” </p>
<p>“Not you,” Snake says. “It wasn’t supposed to be you.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kazuhira Miller/Solid Snake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>How Do Your Genes Sleep?</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Warmest Place to Hide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>With time, Snake settled for feeding his dependence in town. He figured as long as he found a good park bench to sleep on before morning, the bite of the cold below those dim street lamps may take him back to Alaska, when people knew how to keep to themselves. When he never had to explain why drinking until he passed out was somehow easier than lying in a quiet room, waiting for sleep to take him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t understand what was so hard about living and letting live when Otacon would ask with that unsure tremble on his tongue, that placid fear burrowed beneath the surface — the caution of someone feeding a lion by their fingertips — where he had been the night prior. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Out</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he would reply, only because he knew Otacon would never disagree. If he had a decent enough time, the pep in his voice would lie through his teeth for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seldom, he’ll experience a dry spell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world spins a little slower on the interim. He notices more; how his partner bounces his knee far too considerably if they share even a moment of eye-contact. Or the ominous slithering of nightmares in the backdrop of his mind, teasing the barriers, itching corners, peeling scabs off of wounds long closed. Sobriety never yields restful sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Master Miller won’t stop shifting in dark corners, reminding him to change the locks and stay away from windows. His unusually unkempt hair and forced, west-coast accent won’t go away, his voice that always sounds far too constrained — why hadn’t Snake realized sooner?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, Otacon notices too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He giggles to himself, hides it behind his curls when he looks away. “Snake,” he starts, and it’s a profound revelation when Snake realizes there’s another person in the room with him. “Don’t you think you’re forgetting something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake’s mind goes other places. His palms itch. He can’t stand the sound of another voice above a hum when he’s in his own head. He looks at Otacon and subsequently hears a jeering audience roaring at him. He almost drops the bowl in his hand. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Otacon’s cheek caves as he bites it. “The stove.” He points with his free hand. “You left it on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake is suddenly back in an apartment, standing in front of a steaming pan of saturated, mushy, corner-store noodles. Miller isn’t so loud anymore. “Oh. Yeah.” He flicks the register to its lowest point, letting their dinner simmer. “Good catch.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Otacon shakes his head, returning to his dish of soggy noodles. “I swear,” he says. “If it weren’t for me,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake finishes the line in his head as Otacon continues, mouthing the words. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d burn the whole complex down!” he says absently, before turning to Snake with a quizzical expression. “What was that, Snake?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing.” Snake sets down his bowl of greyish, soggy noodles and turns towards their front door. “Not hungry right now. You can have my serving.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>”Oh. Alright.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Otacon cranes his neck over the back of the couch and watches Snake as he meanders like a driven parasite, so expressly acquainted with their dwellings yet coasting like someone’s burden — a dirty secret — and Otacon frowns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not eating again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just told you,” Snake says, pulling on a navy overcoat. “I’m not hungry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” He looks from Snake to their old-style flatscreen, boasting staticky cartoons, to his discarded bowl of noodles. “I thought we were going to eat together tonight? You said you would take it easy, Snake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said I’m not hungry.” Snake opens the door to their apartment, sparing Otacon a side glance. “We can try again tomorrow, if you want.” He closes the door before Otacon can reply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Otacon sits there for a moment, thinking to himself. The air feels lighter; he hates the breeze that blows through him when Snake leaves. He can’t help his fear of aloneness nor simultaneous contempt towards a quiet, empty house. Neither can he help his discomfort around his parasite who remains so aloof. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake is no stranger to neon lights. When the city winks its eye, he’s reminded of Heaven flickering through the veil and crying emerald falls onto snow-capped mountains. His empty sky never shone so wonderfully than when dusk fell in Alaska, littered the land fractalized by frozen streams and imperious evergreen trails with a morsel of beauty, gave a discernible melody to the tune of silent desolation that plagued his lonely nights, helped the whiskey flow smoothly down his throat with little bite beyond the flames in his gut. God showed his hand on clear, April twilights, and for one moment at a time, Snake believed that divinity was real. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the city, however, the wolves don’t cry out with nearly so much sorrow, and the heavens don’t bleed with light. He finds felines in his midst before the hounds come running to the sound of unguarded meat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flinches at Miller’s cool tone pestering him by the stairwell as he descends. He raises his shoulder against the apparition, cruising out of the complex and onto the street. He imagines footsteps made uneven by </span>
  <span>a prosthetic gait trudging behind him, veering away from puddles of rainwater and crud in a way that Snake doesn’t bother to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The closest bar is plagued by garbage of the abiotic and living variety. Snake passes under neon, triple-X’s and pushes through doors of steel bars into a dim interior. The walls are dismal with soot and eroded wallpaper, giving an appropriate backdrop to the seedy crowd scattered around bar stools and booths lining the walls. He takes a seat at the bar. The busty waitress in a torn, black crop-top doesn’t so much as spare him a glance; they know who he is here, despite his efforts to remain unseen, unconsidered.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bartender slides him something smoky without ice, knowing the drill. Snake buries his gaze in its shallow abyss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wisps of royal, ascot yellow, and platinum blond drift unhurriedly towards the men’s bathroom. It catches Snake’s eye like a glare of sunshine off of a windshield. He looks around to the other patrons. None seem to be bothered by what he sees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Master Miller reminds him that mankind’s deepest aberrations lie in the traps he sets for his fellow man. Snake stands, setting aside years of survival training where he was taught that in the gravest of environments, the prettiest fruits and fauna bear the deadliest poison. He obeys graffiti trails, following their vandalism with his heart cautiously pounding in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses in front of the door to the one-holer men’s room. The trademark sound of metal prosthesis clinking against concrete, rubber joints bending, steel fingers snapping. Snake’s brow is soon moist with sweat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He taps his knuckles against the slab of vertical concrete, watching flakes of old paint chip off. It’s eerily silent. Looking off to the side, he glares at an ugly wall outlet, oozing fluid from its permanent frown. He knows there should be no answer from the other side. He pushes the door open, pointing his gaze at the floor out of courtesy in case he happens to be wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One lightbulb swings above him, loosely hanging from its fixture - or lack thereof - above one single mirror. A wayward moth bats its dusty wings against the bulb, not bothering to shy away from the heat. The bathroom is empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake locks the door behind him and dips his head into the only stall. Clumps of wet toilet paper litter the floor, cast in ugly streaks of water and other fluids around the bowl’s base. He step’s back, sighing. He considers the mirror in front of him and wonders if perhaps the moth has more business here than he does. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s abruptly taken back; someone corners him against the sink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re getting sloppy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake sucks in a sharp breath. He closes his eyes, gripping the sink’s edge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at yourself - widen your stance. Square your shoulders,” he says, and Snake doesn’t dare to open his eyes. He forces his lungs to expand, rolling his shoulders into a loose square. Miller makes a noise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thought I taught you better than that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t have left,” Snake finds himself saying, and despite keeping his gaze averted, he knows it surprises Miller, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miller chuckles sardonically. “It wasn’t really my decision, was it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake revels in that sound - smoothe, charming, yet inflated with enough of a cynic’s sly facetiousness that it keeps all in company on edge, guessing. Snake always envied his ability to stay aloof from those around him. He never wanted to be known by anyone but his Master. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this official training?” Snake swallows, hoping his eagerness isn’t too obvious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miller clicks his tongue. “You haven’t changed one bit,” he says, his voice drifting back and forth within the imperious gap between Snake and the wall behind him. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cadet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake shudders. “Master,” he breathes. His knuckles blanch around the sink’s jaded, porcelain edge. He digs the bluntness of his nails into the small crevices, his tongue twisting. “I…” he trails off, soon clearing his throat. “Why did you leave me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miller hums. Snake hears the subtle inflection; he isn’t happy about it either. “What was I supposed to do? We all have our time, kid.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you,” Snake says. “It wasn’t supposed to be you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should it have been your father instead?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake’s gut twists. He swallows his emotions, hoping each rotation of his stomach is fleeting in its severity. “Maybe,” he suggests. He drops his tone, mumbling. “Could have been me, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miller doesn’t respond. Snake can hear the moth flapping above him, his tiny wings like a tankard dragging against cell bars, ever rhythmic and sad. They both yearn for their fire. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He almost cranes his neck around, or dares to look in the mirror. He doesn’t want to find out he’s all alone again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David,” Miller abruptly says, and Snake’s hide trembles, the hair on the back of his neck standing at a fine point. “You’re always so goddamn sentimental. Worse than your father.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miller hums. “Don’t be.” His voice drifts into Snake’s right ear, uprooting the canal, prickling his lobe. His tone drops to something Snake wants so </span>
  <em>
    <span>badly</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be suggestive, a touch humored. “Did you miss me that much?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake opens his mouth, only to close it just as quick. He hopes his Master cannot hear the jittery clanking of his teeth. “Yes,” he dares, with little breath in lungs to do so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I always told you, you were in over your head,” Miller says, a touch of disappointment to his tone - enough to have Snake frowning. “Never let them see how good you are at trudging through dirt and shit. I knew you would end up somewhere halfway across the world for it. Figured I wouldn’t be there to see it, either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Master,” Snake begins, dipping his head. “Don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” Miller clicks his tongue, sighing. “Sentimental and all. How about you let your Master take care of you one last time, for the one-time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cool hand wraps around Snake’s middle. He nearly gives out, leaning into it, but tightens his grip on the sink instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hardly anything, just enough of a pressure above his coat that he knows it’s there, </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it isn’t just his imagination. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wishes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He shudders, backtracking at the subtle heat because Miller never allowed him to touch his prosthesis; it’s too on-par, Snake can’t keep his head from spinning. It’s too </span>
  <em>
    <span>real. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like that, Cadet?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake hurriedly nods, no longer trying to hide his enthusiasm. “Yes, sir.” He gulps, locking his elbows in a hard line, his thighs squeezing together. He’s too tense, too eager. He doesn’t want to disappoint but he can’t hide his longing, his hunger. “Master, may I touch you, too?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hand around his middle raises over his chest, one heavy palm cradling Snake the way he’s always fantasized about, almost as good as the real thing. He whines painfully. He can feel those individuals fingers splaying out, raised by the wide buttons of his coat, hangnails catching on loose fabric pieces. It’s too real; Miller doesn’t respond, and Snake can’t help himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He casts a glance into the mirror in front of him, and the air in his chest is knocked out, his blood cold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His accent was always too forced, in the end. His hair not tied up the same, his prosthesis not as cold - Snake could almost hear it over their codec call. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise— Snake should’ve realized sooner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snake’s very own doppelgänger bears an accomplished grin. His right arm a repulsive stump, the creases along his face, his jawline, far more pronounced, unsightly. Metal Gear “Rex” hums ominously somewhere above, fox blood on his heels, and Snake is stricken stiff, pale in the face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liquid’s words echo throughout the parallels of time, unbothered by the endless days between now and Alaska, ‘05. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As long as you live, I will not die.” He laughs, and all at once, the air is sucked out of Snake’s lungs. “Be seeing you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as though he were never there, Liquid is gone, taking whatever precious semblance of Miller that Snake had left along with him. Snake looks not at his own reflection, but the wall behind him, in all its abased, vacant glory. He drops to his knees, heaving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even the moth above him flutters away with disappointment, and Snake has to wonder if it, too, wasn’t a subtle metaphor of his mind’s own devising. He slumps against the cruddy wall to his side and rocks into its cool embrace like a lost child. He can’t help the tears as they fall. He’s thankful he locked the door when he came in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere a few blocks down the street, Otacon finishes up his serving of noodles and laughs at one of Mei Ling’s outlandish references so joyously, he’s in stitches - and with such clarity, Snake realizes that he is utterly and completely alone. </span>
</p>
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